


Random 1

by rebonae



Category: The Cask of Amontillado - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, School Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebonae/pseuds/rebonae
Summary: Written for my final project in Composition 2. I had a lot of fun with this tbh.The Cask, but it's modern day.





	Random 1

**Author's Note:**

> Word limit: no more than 1500 words, and you bet I tried to get as close to that as I could.

The last children bleat in terror, stumbling from house as the roaring chainsaw follows close behind. A scarecrow, ragged and beaten, limps behind the children. He stops. He lets them run into the safety of the witch.

“You survived!” the witch exclaimed. “And for that, you all have earned a great reward.”

She dips a hand into the swirling emerald smoke of her cauldron, and pulls out a large handful of candy. The children eagerly clamber over each other to get to the candy. They say their thanks, and dart off to their waiting parents.

The scarecrow, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, takes off his mask as he approaches the witch.

“Thank you for doing this with me again, Mrs. Leonelli.” says the scarecrow, smiling.

“Of course, Fortunato. You know how much I enjoy this! I just wish my husband would come over for once.” Mrs. Leonelli sighs, her frown deepening the wrinkles on her face.

Fortunato chuckles. “I wish he would, too.” He slides his hat off, and picks at the tape holding the hay to his arm. “Maybe next year,” he tacks on.

Fortunato bids Mrs. Leonelli a good night, and assures her that he doesn’t need help cleaning up tomorrow, but he appreciates the offer all the same.

Mrs. Leonelli returns home, passing her sulking husband who is sitting slouched in a camping chair in the driveway, and flicks the porch light on.

The children stopped coming to his house as soon as it got dark.

Halloween is always the same drivel for him. He strings up fading orange and purple lights, plugs in the inflatable skull head which only partially inflated because it has several holes in it, sits in the middle of the driveway with a bowl of candy in his lap, and watches parents and children alike turn away from his house in favor of Fortunato’s.

“Even my wife prefers his place to mine,” Montresor mumbles as he stretches, moving to gather his things and head inside.

“Montresor! Hello!” Fortunato calls out as he approaches, still dressed in his costume. Hay flakes off him with each step.

Montresor huffs at the sight of his neighbor, and he ignores Fortunato as he walks to his front door. As luck would have it, Montresor is forced to set the bowl of candy down so he can open the door, which allows for Fortunato to stop him for conversation.

Montresor turns around slowly, an aggravated look on his face, but to Fortunato he seemed more tired than anything.

“Good evening, Fortunato. How was your Halloween?” Montresor asks more out of courtesy than for curiosity.

“Wonderful as always! You know,” Fortunato starts, leaning in as if to share a secret. “you should do a little more for Halloween. Spruce up the place, get some better lights, fix that skull in the front yard. You know people don’t come up to your house because it’s so dark! Honestly, and I wish I had your house because of this, your place looks abandoned. And you! Oh goodness, you just sitting there all slumped and everything, eyes sunken as they are, you know. You look like Edgar Allan Poe, if I do say so myself. A little ragged, but it works! You could do something with that next year.”

Each word out of Fortunato’s mouth, though well meaning, only succeeds in irritating Montresor further.

Montresor yanks the front door open, and mumbles, “I’ll take it into consideration.”

Fortunato goes to reply, but is cut off by the door slamming in his face. Buoyant as ever, he calls out a good night, and returns home.

Montresor sets his things on the couch, stomps to his chair, and sits with a thud.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Montresor’s wife looks up, brows furrowed.

There’s a short pause before Montresor answers. His demeanor shifts dramatically, a smirk slithering on his face.

“Nothing. Fortunato said I should do something Poe related next year, since I look like him.” He turns in his seat to flash his wife a perturbing smile. “I know just what to do.”

 

-*-

Autumn is approaching, and the night wind brings a chill with it. Fortunato, red nosed and warm cheeked, smiles widely at the hole in Montresor’s backyard.

“You said you’d been working on this since after last Halloween?” Fortunato asks, words slightly slurred.

“Yes. Your words inspired me to create something as great as Poe himself. So, I’ve created my own catacombs to pay homage to The Cask of Amontillado.”

The men enter underground.

“How long did this take you to make?” Fortunato asks.

“I started a few days after last Halloween.”

“It’s been nearly a year! You’ve done a great job.”

“I’m still not finished. I have one more finishing touch, and then it will be complete.”

Fortunato hiccupped his next question, but Montresor instead focused on keeping the conversation moving.

“I will be dressed similarly to Rosertnom from the story. Only, I will be handing out carnival masks to visitors. I will be acting a story as we move through these catacombs,” Montresor explains as he gestures about, hand waving to the plastic skulls pushed into the dirt walls. “And you, will be my acting partner.”

Fortunato laughs, tripping over himself a little. “Brilliant! I must say, neighbor, you have quite the talent. Where was this years ago?”

“All a wick needs is a spark,” replies Montresor.

He pulls a trowel out from his waistband, flashing Fortunato a twinkling grin. “Let’s not forget about digging up the Cask.”

Fortunato laughed again. “You really have everything covered!”

Montresor hums in agreement as they enter an open space. Thick wooden pillars, painted black, cast long shadows that run from the floor to the ceiling, hugging the air about them. One giant torch- real ones, not electric -sits on each beam. The support beams on the ceiling are arranged to form small crosses. Bones protrude from the walls, and lay in piles on the floor covered in a layer of dust. A tall wood panel leans against the wall, half sanded. A shovel sits in a far corner.

“Very gothic,” whispers Fortunato.

“Thank you.”

Montresor walks to a smaller dimly lit tunnel towards the back of the room. He beckons Fortunato to enter, and he did with giddy visage.

“This is the part where Otanutrof got chained up, right?”

“Yes,” Montresor answers from behind Fortunato. “And for those who are brave enough, afterwards, they can pose in the chains and take pictures. Would you like to be the first?”

Fortunato is already against the wall trying to attack the chains to his wrists when Montresor asks.  Quickly, and with obsequiousness, Montresor binds his neighbor to the wall. He steps back, his smile gone. He stares at Fortunato for a long moment, and his neighbor believes him to be assessing his work- making sure everything aligns well. He double checks the strength of the chains with quick tugs, and once satisfied, torch now in hand, slowly backs away.

“Oh, this is rich,” Fortunato chuckles. “I’m happy to say you have outdone anything I could do this year. The children will be flocking like crows to see this.”

Montresor turns around, ignoring Fortunato, and hastily walks away.

“Uh, Montresor?” Fortunato hesitantly calls, a cold sobriety washing over him.

Though difficult, Fortunato sees Montresor’s silhouette shoveling dirt into the entrance of the tunnel.

“Montresor!” he called again, louder.

But his neighbor didn’t stop; he only shoveled faster.

“Montresor! This isn’t funny!”

The chains rattle violently as Fortunato struggles. Montresor shovels faster with each jingle, stopping to pack the dirt as needed to make a solid wall.

With another scream from Fortunato, Montresor throws the shovel aside and yells back, dragging the tall panel of wood over the half-filled hole. He did not stop screaming until the panel was pressed flat against the wall.

Montresor didn’t know if the silence was worse, and he didn’t care to stand around to contemplate it. Blowing out the torches, Montresor leaves the catacombs and his old neighbor behind.

Halloween comes around. Upon seeing Fortunato’s house dark and quiet, and Montresor’s brightly lit, trick-or-treaters flock to his backyard for a chance to experience his Cask of Amontillado performance. Children left giggling, bags overflowing with candy. Parents left impressed, showering Montresor in compliments, and questions about Fortunato in equal measure to which he deflected the latter skillfully.

Montresor emerges with the latest group of kids, greeting his wife with a kiss.

“What’s wrong, dear?” he asks when she doesn’t kiss back.

“It’s a shame that Fortunato isn’t here to see this. He would have loved it.”

“Don’t worry,” he soothes. “He helped me finish the last of this. At least he got to help out.”


End file.
